


But Then Face to Face

by VivWiley



Series: But Then Face to Face [1]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Episode Tag, F/M, Mind's Eye, Mulder/Scully pre-relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 19:44:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VivWiley/pseuds/VivWiley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What is seeing?  How do we know each other or ourselves? Mulder comes to terms with the events of Mind's Eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But Then Face to Face

There was a belief in medieval times that the eye of a murder victim captured the image of the last thing he saw, and so the corneas of a victim would be examined to see if they contained the likeness of the murderer. The idea is compelling--that the sudden, unexpected violence done to the innocent would somehow perfectly trap and reflect the evil of the murderer, implicating him, and so set the scales of justice back into alignment.

Today, of course, we laugh at this idea. Our understanding, shaped by modern science and cynicism no longer allows us to believe in that sort of thing. But this case forced me to remember the idea. A blind woman saw three murders. She used a murderer's eyes to kill, and thereby ended both the killing, and her "sight."

The last thing Marty Glenn ever saw was herself--in the act of killing a killer. A killer who probably caused her blindness. It's difficult to assess how the scales have come to rest in this case: in balance or out.

I don't believe she should be in prison. But in a sense, she has been released from bondage. Instead of seeing what Gotts saw, she now sees the ocean. A view that he gave her. There is a part of me that can't mourn her escape from her tether to Gotts. She could never have been free tied to someone else's vision of the world.

Those of us fortunate enough to have been born with our senses intact can't ever understand what Marty's world has been, or what it is now. How she perceives what is around her. How she sees the world. How she knows it.

Ultimately, of course, you can argue that none of us can know how others perceive the world. All of our lenses are colored by our experiences, our education, our prejudices, our...skepticism. But Marty has truly lived to know what another sees in life--and death. And in seeing herself through another's eyes, what did she see? What did she learn?

What would it be like to truly see yourself? In an average life, we never see ourselves directly--only our likeness in mirrors or windows, or in the reactions of others. We perceive only the shadows and reflections of ourselves. So, many of us spend our lives trying to shape ourselves so that the reflected shadow is what we want it to be, never truly knowing if we have changed ourselves, or merely our reflection.

I am still not sure why I went to visit her in the prison. I did want to offer, one more time, to try to intervene in her sentence; to try to get the judge to understand the mitigating, if barely believable, circumstances. Marty would have none of it. If I am brutally honest with myself, though, I am forced to admit that I probably had other motives in going there. 

There is a wild independence and fierce spirit in Marty that draws me. It's something I wanted to protect, to touch, to know. I wanted all those things, of course, because I had hoped that if I could know them about Marty then I could come one step closer to understanding Scully.

Max Fenig described her as the "enigmatic Dr. Scully." I thought it was funny at the time. I didn't realize that Max was seeing a truth about her that it took me much longer to see. 

When did I get in the habit of talking to Scully even when I'm not? As soon as I made the remark in the police station about how Marty was demonstrating her independence I knew I was at least half-talking to Scully--willing her to hear me, to understand that I know and understand how much Scully needs and values her own independence and freedom. 

_Hear me, Scully. I see you, I know you, I won't try to constrain you._

And I didn't. I let her go back to DC to conduct the lab work for the case without a single word of protest. It's still so hard for me to be separated from her. The fear I carried that her cancer would untimely rip her from my side has now been replaced by an insidious gnawing in my gut that the chip in her neck will draw her away. I have no illusions. There will be another bridge, another call, and next time she may not be spared the fire. And then what will I do?

I have, on more than one occasion, accused Scully of being stubborn, unwilling to listen or to see. I suppose it is true that we tend to denigrate in others what we dislike most about ourselves.

I have been stubborn to the point of madness in denying what Scully means to me. I still have not told her, although I think she knows. Is my acceptance of her silent knowledge simply another form of cowardice? Is it merely a way of avoiding having to tell her what I need to tell her? Will I find the courage to tell her before the next time...? Will I let myself see the possibilities? Do I trust myself and her enough to believe in what it is she will see when I ask her to look at us?

I think I will have to find the courage, because I can't deny any longer that it is only in Scully's reflected vision that I can see myself.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Scully meets my train at Union Station. I am surprised to see her. In fact, not expecting her there, I nearly brush by her, but then her familiar form imposes itself on my consciousness and I recognize her.

"Scully?"

"Hey, Mulder." Her tone is studiously neutral, but I sense an odd current running beneath the placid surface. "I thought you might need a ride." She knows that I always metro in from Alexandria, so she is correct, but this is out of character for her. For us.

"Thanks." I know that my confusion is evident to her, as is my unspoken question about what she's doing there. She ignores it, simply turning and beginning to lead the way up the escalator to the parking garage behind the station. I quickly catch up to her, and we ride the moving stairs side-by-side. Silently.

The drive back to my place, through the dark and mostly deserted streets of the city, is made in near silence. Scully asks about how Marty is doing; knowing how the case has ended. I tell her about my visit to the prison, and how Marty now sees the ocean. I am watching Scully closely in the dim light of the car, and can just see the tiniest wistful smile cross her mouth. I suddenly remember that her father is now a part of that ocean.

I wonder if Scully sees the sea when she closes her eyes. I wonder what else she sees. 

When we reach my apartment, I am surprised again when I realize that she is actually looking for a parking space instead of simply pausing in front of my building. I can feel a nervous tension begin to build in my gut. I am hyper-aware of her: the edges of her form seem preternaturally sharp; I can smell her smoky, clean Scullyness; I swear I can actually feel the heat from her body wrapping itself around me in this suddenly confining space. I must break this moment.

I ask the obvious question, "Do you want to come up for coffee?"

She throws me a quick glance that seems equal parts amusement and impatience. "Thanks." For a woman who seems to want to talk, she is unusually quiet tonight.

I hear her wandering around the living room as I make the coffee. The sudden tension I felt in her car has receded but has left me shaky and edgy. Well, edgier.

Why has this case set me so off-balance? What is Scully doing here? Now?

The coffee done, I bring out the cups, being careful to place hers on a table near where she is slowly pacing--I don't think I could stand to touch her, even in passing, right now. Although it is late, and my apartment is dark, she has turned on only one lamp in the far corner. In the dim light from that single source, and the reflected light from the kitchen, I can just see her. In truth, though, I could see Scully in the dark.

She takes a long sip from her mug, and then still cradling the cup in her hands, she looks up at me. I lose my breath. Her eyes have never been this color before.

But still she doesn't speak. I retreat to the humor behind which I hide all my deeper and more troubling emotions.

"Do you know that Detective Pennock actually called me skeptical?" I know that my wry tone is slightly forced, and wonder if she can hear the tension. The thought is dismissed as soon as it crosses my mind. Of course she can hear it.

She has the grace to look genuinely amused. "Did he call me spooky?"

I almost laugh. "No, but I tell you, it definitely took me aback. I've been called many things, but 'skeptical'?"

She sighs quietly, and now I think I have given her--us--the breathing room she needs to begin.

"This was certainly a weird one, Mulder." She is still approaching obliquely, and I cannot see the angle of her attack yet. 

"Well, yeah. But at least no one had to put their hand into bile, or crawl through any sewers." Humor. Yes, definitely a useful shield.

She seems lost, although she is most definitely here with me. I sense that she is fighting her way through a personal maze to something she can't quite yet name.

"She saw what Gotts saw, didn't she?" Her tone is quiet; anyone else might call it defensive, but I hear something else.

"Yeah." I don't want to interrupt her train of thought, but she was obviously expecting an answer.

"She grew up inside a prison, and now she's living in one." Scully's compassion and empathy are well-known to me, but still move me every time. I can hear a nearly silent grief running through her.

She is almost talking to herself, pensive in a way that makes me ache. "What would it have been like? Growing up seeing someone else's view of the world? But of course, she didn't even know what it was that she was seeing. Would Marty have been more...." she struggles for words, trying to shape her thoughts precisely, as always, "....likable? Easy? if Gotts had been a nicer person? Did his sight that she had have other influences?" She has read my mind again. I should not be surprised by this anymore.

"I don't know." I must be so careful here.

"Did she try to fight him? Or was it simply inevitable?" Scully seems so far away, almost as though she is fading into some other time.

"She became the killer that we were trying to prove she wasn't. She killed her own father. A father who killed her mother....." She sighs again, and meets my eyes. "I'm not quite sure what I'm saying here, Mulder, just that something here feels so wrong." She starts to turn, to put her cup down.

"I'm sorry. It's late, you undoubtedly want to sleep. I should be going." She is surrendering her attempt at defining this thing that is troubling her, and retreating before she lets me see all the way to her soul. I don't want to let that happen. She so rarely lets in at these moments of doubt, but I don't know how to stop her.

"Do you hate the way I see you, Scully?" The question is out before I can stop it, or explain it. I am afraid that my voice may be trembling.

She halts, her movements arrested in mid-gesture. "Where did that come from?" Then she seems to read the anguish that must be etched my face and relents. Her gaze holding mine, she seems to consider, as though listening for the echoes underneath my words.

"No, Mulder, I don't hate the way you see me." Her tone is soft, but opaque. I cannot read her at all. 

I have been given a reprieve; it is short-lived. My slow exhalation of breath has just begun when her eyes shift again--their focus harder, narrower. "Where _did_ that come from?" 

I shiver, slightly, and think she notices it, but she doesn't let up for a moment. She senses that I have inadvertently betrayed myself; I have exposed a soft underbelly of vulnerability, and there is a part of Scully that can't resist moving in for the kill.

I turn and look out the window, but it is a less than effective maneuver. I can see her watching me in the glass--our images mirror back to me, trapped in the same tension. Her eyes are only slightly muted in reflection, and I cannot escape them. We are suspended in the glass, trapped in the night's blackness that threatens to blind me with both darkness and light.

"Marty told me that she hated the way her father saw her. And it made me wonder if she was more than just seeing through her father's eyes--if somehow his prejudices and views on things filtered back to her along with the images.

"Is that what seeing through another's eyes would really be like? Would we not just see the world, but all the crazy ways that person interprets the world?

"I just worry sometimes, Scully, that I'm playing Gotts to your Marty--forcing you to see the world through my eyes. And maybe that's why you fight me so hard. That's why you never see my point of view."

Her head tilts a little to one side, and her eyebrows begin their ascent. "That's just a tiny bit arrogant, don't you think?" 

Startled, I turn back to face her. This was not was I expecting.

"According to you, Mulder, Marty had no choice in what she saw. Some bond was established between her and Gotts, probably when he killed her mother, and she simply *had* these visions all her life. Moreover, since she was blind from birth she never had anything against which to compare those visions. No basis for accepting or rejecting anything." 

She takes a step closer to me, and searches my eyes for a moment before continuing, I am powerless to move--a rat trapped by the hypnotic gaze of a cobra.

"Do you think you have so much persuasive power that I am helpless to do anything but _try_ to fight off your view of the world?" Silk over knife edge. I can do nothing but shake my head. _No, Scully, that's not what I meant._

She relents slightly. "I am a grown woman, Mulder. A doctor, a scientist, a trained agent. You are my partner. I listen to you, but if I fight you or your views," she places an odd emphasis on the word fight, "it is because I have my own views, and have a basis for making a judgment. And, after all that we've seen, and been through, I don't think it's entirely accurate or fair to say that I _never_ see your point of view, either.

"You fight my theories, too, you know, and I honestly don't think it's because I have you so in my thrall that you are helpless to do anything to but see the scientific and rational explanation." She is almost smiling. I remember how to breathe. _Scully, Scully. Of course I am in your power. I have always been in your power._

Her voice drops, soft, intimate, dark. "I love the way you see things, Mulder. Your passion...it colors things and makes them alive. You see possibilities that I would never see on my own, and sometimes you see things that I simply can't believe. But I would hate to never have been offered the chance to see them." She swallows abruptly, and glances away, almost as though she has betrayed something she never meant to expose.

But she doesn't lack courage, my Scully.

"I know I have a tendency, as do you, to be a little narrow-minded about things, sometimes. I have a specific world-view that defines me, and how I will attack a given problem or set of evidence. So do you. It's what makes us good partners, Mulder. Because we have learned, we are learning, how to see each other's views as well as listen to each other. We still have a ways to go, but the journey has been good for both us."

She has almost succeeded in distracting me. Almost. I know she will hear the smile in my voice, but hope she also hears the seriousness.

"Nicely said, Agent Scully. And, I do agree." I pause to take in her tiny smile and nod. "But you haven't answered my question. What about the way I see _you?_ " Where have I found this courage? And is it really courage when I am making her do all the work? I have not told her how I see her, I am relying on her to know. Oh god. What if she truly doesn't know? But it is too late.

She reaches up to my face, and I instinctively close my eyes. I feel her feather light touch across my eyelids, and even after it withdraws, I keep my eyes closed. I don't want to see the precipice below my feet.

"Some days, Mulder, I have no idea how you see me. But other days, it is what keeps me going. I can be strong, and smart, and stubborn, and independent..." her voice trails off, and I know that she is remembering the Delaware police station and my words. I finally open my eyes as she continues, "and you are still there, by my side, fighting with me, but backing me up when the chips are truly down, as I will do for you. And you still look at me like that." 

_Like what, Scully? Like what?_

But the moment is past. I can almost feel the shift in the room. She is once again focused, in the present. She is already stepping toward the door to leave, although I know she won't bother to say "good night."

"Why did you meet my train tonight, Scully?" I hope that she can't hear the longing in my voice.

She is her most enigmatic as she turns at the door. "I guess I just needed to see you, Mulder."

When I close my eyes I will see her smile.

 

END

 

For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.  
 _(I Corinthians 13:12)_

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Haphazard Method. Just because.
> 
> Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the X-Files are the property of 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. No infringement is intended.
> 
> My thanks, as always, to Meredith, who sees things so clearly, and with such grace.


End file.
